Scars
by Eartha
Summary: Scars. Draco knew about scars. It was best, he knew, to have them in places people didn’t see. Scars should be hidden behind shadows and securely underneath one’s robes. His father taught him that. A candid conversation between D&H. CH. 2: Dudley.
1. Draco

**Scars**

Chapter 1: Draco

By: Eartha

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and associated characters are the property of JK Rowling.

* * *

Scars. Draco knew about scars.

It was best, he knew, to have them in places people didn't see. Scars should be hidden behind shadows and securely underneath one's robes.

His father taught him that.

Draco also knew what caused scars.

The long white thin lines of the cutting curse. The deep, angry and ragged cords of the tearing jinx. They were as familiar to him as the lines of his hands.

The round, raised circles, however, were new to him…

"Malfoy, what are you staring at?"

Startled grey eyes stared into intense green. Harry Potter glared at him from the opposite bed, as if daring him to say something.

They had been here, together, for some time. Two weeks to be exact. Those were the first words Potter had said to him in days.

They generally tried to avoid each other. It was not animosity so much as a distinct sense of discomfort. The bitterness of school rivalry had left them long ago. Time together without any other human contact could do that.

However, they were still tense around each other, as if waiting for a hex, jinx, or curse to come when the other's back was turned.

Draco had defected to the Order a month ago. He had shown up, bloody and half-starved, at the gates of Hogwarts. Voldemort's latest punishment had lasted for three endless months after his failure to kill Dumbledore. He could not even remember the last time he had seen daylight before his desperate escape. It had been his mother who had helped him leave. She had….

Draco shivered.

No, he didn't want to think of what happened to Narcissa.

Some scars, he knew, left no visible mark at all. Those were the most painful.

Feeling the hard gaze still on him, Draco realized that he had zoned out after Potter had asked his question. Too much time left in solitude had made Draco awkward. His Slytherin cunning had deserted him along with his pureblood pride, leaving simple and plain honesty behind.

"Scars." He replied, staring right back.

Potter's eyes narrowed for a second, but then softened as he turned his eyes to Draco's torso, scanning the crisscrossing mess. Some were red and angry, still swollen from the recent abuse. Others, however, were faint and long since healed.

Potter's next question caught Draco off guard.

"How long?"

Draco did not know how to answer that question. How long since what? How long had he been staring? Or, Draco inhaled quickly at the thought, how long ago was the first time? The first hurt that caused that first long, thin, white line to appear?

Seeing Draco hesitate, Potter, with gaze averted, answered his own question.

"The first time I can remember, I was four." Green eyes stared out into the distance, as if searching for an old memory. A sad, ironic smile twisted his countenance.

Draco listened intently. He wanted to hear this story. He wanted to know that the golden boy wasn't so perfect after all. He wanted to know that Potter knew pain just as well as he did.

Potter continued, "Aunt Petunia had had some important guests over for an afternoon tea, and my cousin Dudley was put on display like some sort of overstuffed teddy bear, with frilly collar and all. I, of course, had been placed in my cupboard, and told to keep my mouth shut, or else…."

Draco furrowed his eyes, wondering why the precious child had been stuffed into a closet as if he was some shameful family secret. Shouldn't he have been the one on display, the golden child, the boy-who-lived? What was so spectacular about his cousin?

"I was hungry. I don't think I had been fed that day, or the day before. I'd probably been blamed for breaking one of Dudley's toys," Potter's eyes hardened at that statement.

Draco had once glimpsed Potter's cousin, a fat lump of a boy with glazed watery blue eyes and straw-like hair. He had not been impressed.

"Dudley was always breaking his toys. He had a whole other room devoted to them, like a graveyard. Every once and a while, I would steal into the room to grab something to play with. Dudley was always very protective of his stuff, no matter if he never played with it or that it was broken. I had a few precious items that I had been able to keep without his notice. A small plastic soldier without a leg. A stuffed bunny rabbit with the stuffing pulled out of the head. They were my treasures…"

Draco watched as Potter stared out into the distance with hand slightly lifted, as if attempting to grasp a forgotten toy.

Things were not adding up well in Draco's mind: scars, withheld food, cupboards, and broken toys. This was a part of Potter that he had never known. And yet, looking back, he remembered seeing a frail, skinny, short boy alone on the train platform with ridiculously oversized muggle clothing. He had thought that Potter was just a weak, sickly boy. His constant fainting and headaches throughout their school years had seemed to play into this reasoning. But, he had always ended up looking better after a few months at Hogwarts. And, Draco knew, whether he wanted to admit it or not, that Potter was not weak.

Slowly, Potter dropped his hand and continued with the story. Draco was almost afraid to hear what was next.

"Dudley was leaning towards the teacakes. I had been watching him through the small air slat in my cupboard. I was so hungry, that my eyes just fixated on that little cake. I wanted it so badly…" This time Potter was clenching at his stomach, as if feeling those long ago hunger pains.

Draco knew how it felt to be without food. Voldemort had seen to the fact that he would suffer as much as possible. Feeding him sporadically with half-rotten food was one of his favored methods of breaking him. He had never felt so physically weak in his life.

"Suddenly, it was just there. In my hand. I was so surprised, I hadn't even realized that Dudley had begun to cry. I remember just staring at the cake. I was afraid to eat it." His eyes turned to meet Draco's then. They were unreadable. Pools of darkness, filled with emotion and pain, neglect and hurt. Unable to withstand the onslaught of emotion, Draco was forced to look away.

"I wasn't allowed such luxuries. Teacakes weren't meant for _freaks_."

Potter said the last word with such venom that Draco visibly flinched.

"Several hours later, my uncle opened the cupboard to let me use the restroom. He always let me have ten minutes to brush my teeth, wash, and use the toilet before he locked it again for the night. I still hadn't eaten the cake. It was there in my hand when he opened the door. He was livid. He accused me of stealing food from them, as if they had starved without their little teacake. I remember him unbuckling his belt, and the first quick, hot flash of pain. I dropped the cake. He stepped on it, ground it into the floor with his shoe. Another flash of pain, then nothing. I woke up two days later by my Aunt's insistent shaking. She told me that they were leaving for preschool in 10 minutes and to get cleaned up. My back was bruised pretty terribly, I could hardly move. And, on my side were three small puncture wounds with dried blood." Potter rubbed the side of his ribs where three barely visible small round scars were left as a testament to his abuse. Then, pointing to his forehead, he said, "besides this one, those where the first scars I can remember."

It occurred to Draco then, just what those unidentified small white marks were that he had seen littering Potter's body like some strange form of Dragon Pox. They were scars made from the small clasp of a belt buckle.

Draco's breath hitched as he realized the amount of beatings that Potter would have had to endure to gain that exact number of small round circles.

No, he realized, Potter was no stranger to pain.

As Potter stared into the distance, lost in whatever other painful memories he surely had, Draco once again wondered what had possessed him to accept him into the Order. And he knew it had indeed been Potter, the leader of the resistance, who had allowed it. Surely, someone who had experienced such pain in his life would have little sympathy for one of the people who had caused some of that pain. If it had been Draco himself who had had to decide, he would have probably thrown the wretch back to the streets to suffer and die alone.

Draco wanted to know. He wanted to know why Potter would have let him live, why he would have accepted him into his sanctuary, why, even, he would have told his childhood enemy such a personal story.

And so he asked, "Why?"

Slowly, Potter's eyes turned to his own, as if to determine what he meant by the question. Then, his green gaze slid back over to the sickly modern art that was Draco's chest and arms. He did not, however, focus on the raw wounds left so recently by the Dark Lord that stood out in such deep contrast to the fair coloring of his skin. Instead, his eyes stopped at thin lines, hidden by shadows. The ones underneath his arms, thin and white, almost invisible.

Potter quietly replied as he stared hard at those old wounds, "Scars."


	2. Dudley

**Scars Ch. 2: Dudley**

By: Eartha (1/31/09)

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and co. are the property of JK Rowling.

* * *

(Summer)

Hearing a loud sigh, Dudley looked up from his paper with a smirk hovering on his lips. He knew that sound. "What's the matter, honey?" he asked his oldest daughter. Her cherubic face was squeezed into a pitiful pout, as her bright blue eyes stared at him from under hooded lids. He knew that face. His daughter was not happy.

"What's the point?!" she whined, stomping her foot for emphasis.

"What's the point of what?" he countered, still smiling at his daughter's mild distress. It was not unheard of for her to throw a tantrum. He had to admit to himself, if not to his wife, that he had spoiled his first-born rotten.

Another stomp. She was becoming impatient. Again, he shook his head. With a deep sigh, he asked again, "What's the matter, honey?"

With pouted lips, she petulantly cried, "It's this book!" His eyes turned to the object in her hands. With its muted cover, it was unlike her usual reading. He could usually spot her books from a mile away. The fairytale romances she preferred were almost always lurid shades of pink with big scripted letters.

It must be a required summer book.

He held out his hand, a request to see exactly what about the book was causing her so much distress. However, he sincerely doubted he'd know anything about it. When the books came from her school, he rarely ever did. Glancing down at the cover, his hand froze. His breathing shortened to small gasps of air.

"Scars: The Life of Harry Potter"

His daughter, oblivious to her father's strange behavior, rambled on, complaining about the book. He didn't hear her. He couldn't believe it. It couldn't be HIM, not the Harry he had known. Who would have written a book about him?

He hesitated. Memories, long ago buried, resurfaced to paint a different picture. There had always been a hullabaloo around Harry, hadn't there? There had been something about him...

He shook his head in incredulous denial. Surely, there was nothing important enough to write a book about him!

Guilt, a heavy, familiar emotion clutched at his chest. He pushed it away - it was nothing. It had always been _nothing_.

Slowly, Dudley's hearing cleared. He shook his head again to clear away the strange thoughts. It must be nothing. He turned back to his daughter, a vague, if not somewhat strained smile on his face.

Taking a big breath, she blew her bangs away from her forehead in frustration and threw the book on the floor in front of Dudley. Stomping her foot again, she cried, "What's the point if he just dies in the end?!"

Dudley froze. His hearing became muffled, his eyesight narrowed into darkness. His daughter called his name…. And then, nothing.

* * *

(Winter)

Dudley entered the small graveyard, its well-kept paths and trimmed hedges giving it a park-like feel. He hesitated. It felt like Privet Drive, too perfect, an attempt to hide a sordid truth.

_(A memory) A small boy, sunburned and thirsty, weeds a garden. He stands in front of him, holding a large, cold glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade. _

_Grunts, a weed holds tight to the earth. The boy pulls harder and flies on to his back, panting from the strain and exhaustion. _

_He stares down at the boy, sneers, and slowly pours to glass of cold lemonade on the ground beside him._

Feeling a tight pressure on his hand, Dudley looked down to see his impatient daughter wriggling in annoyance. He shook his head to clear the images, but a vice like grip remained around his heart, mimicking his daughter's hand, clenching and squeezing. He didn't want to walk any further. And yet…

His daughter pulled him forward, making his decision for him. In a few steps at the end of the path, he saw it, a monument to a hero. A man, close to his own age, was kneeling at the tomb. A child hung reluctantly behind him, slowly inching away.

Seeing the movement, the kneeling man called back to the boy, "James, don't go far!"

His daughter perked up at the sound, "James?!" She smiled. The boy smiled back, the light of recognition in his eyes. His daughter had found a schoolmate it seemed. She ran towards the boy. Dudley let her go without protest. She didn't know. She wouldn't understand.

How could she? She knew nothing of the boy who used to live with her father in a small quiet house on Privet Drive….

His eyes wandered across the statue of the familiar stranger. Wild hair, round glasses, solemn face. His arms were raised in a protective stance, as if to ward away a great evil.

_Walking home through the tunnel. Darkness. A chill that reaches his bones. He stops, unable to move on. Pain, screams in the dark… "Dudley, get away!" "Run!" The world threatens to dissolve. A voice brings him back. "Dudley! Dudley Dudley…"_

He shook his head, unwilling to dwell on those memories of long ago.

Instead he stared at the kneeling stranger, wondering who he could be. Who else would come to His grave on such a cold winter day? The stranger's long blonde hair and sharp features were familiar, but he could not place the man's face. He searched his memories, but could bring nothing up but a blank.

"How did you know him?" the stranger softly asked, startling Dudley from his thoughts.

Dudley stared back somewhat uncomfortably at him, wondering why the man would care.

"You don't seem like the usual visitor", he clarified, partly understanding Dudley's hesitance to answer. The man turned his head to stare, his grey eyes pierced into Dudley's as if they could see straight through him. "Everyone else…they always try to take a piece of him." The man turned his head back, his own gaze fixed on the statue. "A blade of grass, a picture, anything to say they were here. And yet, you hang back….And so, I ask, how did you know him?"

Know him? Dudley never _knew_ Harry Potter. He turned to stare at the statue. Certainly not THIS Harry Potter.

Once, he knew of a boy, small and fragile. He knew of cries in the dark and hungry sighs. He knew yelps of pain. He knew…nothing. Because to him, back then, HE, the boy in the cupboard, had been nothing.

And yet, this frozen man, the statue, staring back at him now was certainly not a _nothing_. This man, it seemed, had been a _someone_.

Dudley closed his eyes in shame. He couldn't even think of back then without this pain, without this knowledge of what had been. He clenched his fists. So much pain… there had been so much pain, for no reason at all.

Turning his head away, away from the statue, away from the stranger. Away from himself. He replied, "You are mistaken, I didn't know him…"

Grey eyes searched his figure, as if looking for the truth. Dudley, avoiding the man's gaze, averted his eyes to his fisted hands, their strength, his pride and joy, suddenly a disgusting thing.

Breathing a deep sigh, he released the anger, the self-loathing. His body deflated until it was but a fraction of its former size. He looked back at the stranger who still stared, as if waiting for the end of his answer.

"I didn't know HIM" his head jerked towards the statue without looking at it. Silence stretched. Still the stranger waited.

"I didn't know him." Dudley softly repeated himself.

He stared at his fisted hands, and saw only blood and hate and anger. A different person, but still the same. Slowly, he lowered his fists, and continued, "…but, I did know his fear."

He walked towards the statue, and the man.

"His pain."

One step forward.

"His cries."

He was close enough to the statue to touch it. He reached up but stilled his hand as the man next to him stared him down, as if daring him to do it.

He retracted his hand. The man nodded his head, as if he expected his reaction. As if he knew.

"I reveled in them all." Dudley was surprised to feel tears fall from his eyes. Only a few at first, they began to rain down his face, a rivulet that pooled at the base of the statue.

"And now?" The man asked, his voice quiet, his eyes distant.

Dudley looked around. He saw his daughter, his beautiful, vibrant daughter. What could have been? If not for this _someone_ whom he had thought had been a _nothing_?

He reached into his coat, and brought out a slim volume. The pages were worn. He had read it many times, and he still could not believe the truth of what HIS life had been.

Slowly, he shook his head and gently placed the book at the statue's feet. An offering, a token of his understanding. Finally.

"And now," he said resolutely, staring at the book on the ground. Again, he clenched his fists. But this time not in hate. Not in anger. Never again. This time, he clenched his fists in silent resolution.

"And now," he quietly repeated, "I know his scars…and they have become mine."

Slowly, he turned and walked away, calling his daughter to his side. He clutched her hand, his body shaking. Concerned, she turned to him to ask what was wrong, but he said nothing. Instead, he pulled her to him in a bear of a hug as they walked away together.

* * *

The wind blew, whipping long blond hair into the stranger's eyes. The pages of the book turned in an arc, flipping the book to its back cover. The muted tones of the binding highlighted, in stark contrast, a large picture. It was a photo of a man, with long, almost white hair. His demeanor was solemn, dark, sad.

The stranger approached the book, and in turn, the photo stared out. Grey eyes met grey eyes.

"Father!" the boy called, breaking the stranger from his reverie. "Father," the boy called again, gently. "It's time to go."

The stranger said nothing, only nodded his head and stood to leave. He reached, but could not touch the statue. He never could.

He turned to go, but did not move forward. Instead, he closed his fist and stared far away. The wind whipped around him, chilling him, making his body ache. He clutched his body tight to ward away the cold. The contours of his body were unnatural, bumps and ridges that no normal human torso should have.

He was repulsed by them. But still, he clutched tighter, wrapping his arms in a vice-like grip. His fingers grasped his sides, searching. There, he felt them. The fine material of his shirt could not hide the thin, raised lines.

His body loosened, the taunt chords of his muscles relaxing into fluid strength. He nodded his head, he knew, he understood. Staring ahead, he watched the specks of the man and his daughter leaving the small plot.

He turned to his son. His son's wild, curly hair, so like his mother's, whipped in the wind. His deep brown eyes plead with his father, asking him to go. It's time.

Another nod, this time in acknowledgment of the statue behind him.

"As they are mine, my friend. As they are mine."


End file.
